Deadly
by chihayes
Summary: A oneshot that I had originally written for a Supernatural imagines blog, now edited into third person after I received multiple requests to upload it here. Death smut. Don't like it? Don't read it.


**Using the name Delilah due to the fact that it allows her to be completely OC**

**Once again, if you don't like smut involving Death, don't read this.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

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It was all a blur, a hazy fog that sat across Delilah's mind from behind closed eyelids and parted lips, darkened and swollen due to the attention that they had most recently received.

His kiss was famous for a reason, as she could only think following an elongated experience with it firsthand as it delved into her soul like water in the cracks of stone, unable to be removed or ignored by any being in the universe, one could only suspect. It was not overdone, nor difficult to cope with, but rather, simplistic enough as to be enjoyable for the both of them throughout its lifespan. A slight brush of the tongue, hands sliding around her waist, fingers gently scratching at his suit jacket— all sparked an undeniable passion that, regardless of whether or not true love was involved, would still result in ecstasy. He was Death, after all. Surely the man knew tricks that no one else could pull off, more so even _think_ of doing to their significant other.

Clothes were shed, falling to the floor with soft sounds that reverberated against the hardwood ever so slightly, the edges ticking her feet the odd time that they brushed by. It was like magic at times, how she soon found herself shedding garments without the smallest bit of considerable effort or pauses that could break the field of lust in the air. Yet, despite Death having all the ability to undress her without a single touch, he chose to do so manually and at a far slower pace than most would expect. There was no sense of urgency when with him, no belief that there was a schedule to keep or put in place following the affair despite Delilah knowing that he very much had one. That alone made her feel as though she meant something to him, despite this probably being nothing more than a form of stress relief to the entity, which in truth, she was more than willing to give.

Soon enough she was naked, fully exposed to Death's eyes that had seemingly darkened to a near black color. Despite a small twinge of bashfulness and embarrassment washing through her as it would any other woman standing before a man in the nude for the first time, she found herself strangely eager to stand there in her natural glory. Perhaps it was the fact that her mind was so driven by lust at that moment, or maybe the idea that Death had already seen so many naked women before, as she could only assume seeing as he had existed for so long. Even now, she couldn't remember the exact reason why.

He coaxed her back against the bed, clad only in his trousers and undergarments, as she did not find the time to remove them as quickly as he did hers, nor with such grace and collectiveness that could make even the most experienced lover stand in awe. It was as though the entire process of sex was some sort of daily task to him, which it most likely was, but no matter. Love had no part to play in this affair, but rather, sheer lust that filled the air with a heavy red smoke was the main attraction, dancing between their bodies in wisps and curves. Delilah couldn't tell if things were going slower or faster than they really were, as only images of pleasure and conjoinment filled her mind.

There was a shiver, a tremor that travelled up her spine when he made contact, hand snaking down the side of her waist, thumb but only teasing the curve of her breast. Most believed that Death's touch was cold, unforgiving, and merciless—though it was quite the opposite, like warm silk that produced a static and tingling buzz against Delilah's skin. Addicted, she didn't want him to stop. No mind had ever become so high on an individual movement, an individual touch than hers had become in that moment. She considered herself lucky, seeing as the entity of death had chosen to not kill her, but instead, give her pleasure. He carried all of the weapons he needed to destroy humanity, the whole earth if he wanted, though chose to continue on despite the chaos and lack of common sense present within society today. That stress, pent up within him for only he knows how long, was now being placed on her in the form of sensuality and appreciation, to her sheer delight.

"Tell me," the words left her lips like honey, a sigh against the near silence of heavy breathing and shuffling about. Gaze cast up to his, irises meeting those of a far darker hue, a question slipped before she could stop it. "What are you going to do?"

Death's head tilted ever so slightly, almost as though he was debating on how to answer her inquiry in the correct fashion. Quite frankly, she couldn't care less about how he answered it. All she wanted was his voice in her ear, laying out exactly what he would do to, and how loud she would scream with pleasure as the act came to a close. There was a sort of mental pleasure that came with word play, one that had the power to stiffen and relax the body like waves on a shore, leave a woman's hips to rise up in anticipation for her lover to push forward, as Delilah had already found herself doing now. No doubt that he felt it against the tightening fabric below his belt, which she so desperately wanted to tear off and be rid of forever, for her dithering was becoming tedious.

He leaned forward, thin lips brushing over the curve of her ear as he began to speak with such composure and equanimity that one could be pleasantly surprised. "Make you _mine_,"his voice was deep, somewhat hoarse when heard from such a close distance, yet mind numbing all the same. "Put a _dent_ in your soul that will withstand the effects of _time_."

The words were somewhat nerve-wracking, as a dent normally implied that something was to be penetrated so much as to cause damage and perhaps pain. However, there was a sense of trust that overpowered said fear of the unknown and somewhat threatening, fully aware that Death was an honest man that, in a situation like this, would most likely take nothing from inflicting harm upon another. Of course, she couldn't be sure, but death by orgasm was most likely one of the best ways to pass on, much more so than burning or drowning.

She arched her back, breasts now pressing against his chest just enough to illicit a sweet sigh from her mouth. It was not excessive, the note drawing out for far longer than it should have in hopes of getting his attention. No. Any sounds she made were real and natural, unavoidable no matter how much she tried to keep her mouth shut and body still while subject to his control. "_Please_."

A long pause, the sound of final garments being removed, a breath, and then— satisfaction.

There was a storm, lightning creating white cracks across the dark clouded sky. There was a pond, multicolored fish swimming about in the crystal blue water with small lily pads floating on the surface like green clocks, spinning back and forth with every rhythmic ripple that disturbed their solace. There would be a woman whimpering in the shade of trees, only to smile and bask in the sunlight moments later, soaking in everything that it had to give her. Such were the things whose sensations mirrored those of that moment.

There was not so much force behind his thrust as she had originally expected, for despite him still penetrating fully and with ease, it was almost as though he were trying to work her into the feeling. A slight jolt of pain was felt from between her legs the moment that she was indulged, though it was quickly replaced with an elated rush that ventured into every crevice of her body, prompting a heavy moan to be heard. Part of the sex itself was the music that it produced, for it often encouraged partners to continue on with the act in hopes of creating a grand finale of sorts, a physical high that swept over the entire room through nothing more than one's voice. She wanted to hold back her whimpers, push them back into the body from which they came, yet it seemed that said wish wasn't happening any time soon.

A timid hand drifted down his back, skin surprisingly hot considering that most expected him to be somewhat deceased or lifeless, or as the song said, ice cold. Perhaps it wasn't so much a negative icy cold that swept over her as oppose to a positive one, sending shivers across the spine and causing the jaw to tremble lightly in contentment. The way he worked her body was sedulous, intricate, so much so that Delilah struggled to control her own movements while beneath him, which was erotic in its own special and unique way. Revealing pleasure that she didn't even know existed.

Her hand would have reached down to grip him gently if it weren't for the little stunt he pulled just then, moving to angle her hips upward before practically slamming back in, force amplified due to the change in position. Mouth agape, though not producing any sound, she found that her senses had been jolted to life, zapped with a shock of electricity that allowed them to perform ten times as well. Death was sure to have known some tricks, and it appeared that he had just used one of them on her.

He had Delilah filled completely; walls stretching farther than any woman would come to believe that her body could take without breaking in two from the legs up. It wasn't so much physical size that played a part on said feeling as oppose to sheer power, as there was no doubt that he was adding a little kick to every thrust, penetrating deeper than bodily means would allow, though with a certain grace and fluidity that removed any sense of raunchiness about the act. This was art, streaks of color on a blank canvas that came together and created a masterpiece, not just a cheap good time that any woman could catch on a street corner if she so much as asked.

One of the most common phrases included the assumption that an older man could bring far more pleasure to a woman than a good looking stud fresh out of university, and in this particular case, she couldn't help but agree more. To call Death an old man was an understatement, ancient, not even remotely close, however with that age brought a certain sense of experience that, when applied to the dance behind closed doors, provided what was perhaps the most gratifying seven minutes of Delilah's life. If a girl could dream, this was it.

Her moans filled the room by now, bouncing off of the walls and back to hers once again before another was released as Death drove in, pace increasing steadily and with a sense of slight cupidity. His hand meandering over her breasts, squeezing and caressing here and there in a rhythmic fashion only brought those sounds higher, straining to hold back a scream that would come soon enough. She wanted to shout out his name, wail until the neighbors came banging on her door with noise complaints and angered voices, only to receive a shriek of pure delight in return. If only the high heavens could know the extent of her delirium, the rush in which she felt beyond honored to experience.

He leaned forward to kiss her then, almost as though he was trying to silence the disruptions that were being created, which now fell into his mouth in the form of sweet sighs. The kiss was not aggressive, purely carnal and ravenous with greed, but instead communicated a form of comfort to her, his enticing voice beckoning a climax out of Delilah's heated core that so desperately craved release. Death himself could most likely go on for however long he wanted, but it seemed that she had reached the end.

Every breath, every sound around her seemed to fade into a deep humming, pupils dilating and head falling back with a soft sound similar to a fist in a pillow. The beating of her heart, the hot, pulsating length that filled her very being was all that mattered as the surroundings shattered into oblivion, sight now nothing but white, shining light that peaked as a single word left her mouth in the form of a cry, "_Death_!"

It was bliss.

Her inner walls contracted around him, back arching as her chest openly presented itself to his darkened eyes, clearly stimulated by the sudden urge to bellow his name to the world in that moment of climax. Death. Death. Death. Death—The only name and word that mattered and swallowed her entire being from the inside out, corrupted the mind and soul until there was, indeed, a dent present that would withstand the effects of time and space itself. It was memoir, so to speak, like the scar that one would brag about having gotten when they had done something truly spectacular, and while no one could see this particular memory, she had no intention of letting it sit dormant and without purpose. It wasn't every day that a woman had the chance to be subject to Death's hidden talents.

He had continued to pump for a minute period of time following Delilah's extravagant display, his own soon following in a far more laid back and casual fashion, eyes closing slowly before a deep sigh of contentment could be heard leaving parted lips. She had never expected anything more than the average reaction from him, but the fact that she had brought such a powerful and immense being pleasure was, to say it lightly, stunning. It was as though any pent up anger, frustration, or stress had been thrown from his form and replaced with nothing more than a brief instance of reticence.

Some regarded silence as a negative thing, believing it acted as wasted space that could be filled with intellectual conversation. However, as she lay there, body still fluttering with mild anticipation of what may come next while Death reclined next to her casually, busying himself with a fountain drink from some hole in the wall restaurant, the silence only made Delilah want more.

_Oh Death_.

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**If there were any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes, please let me know :)**


End file.
